


we are the children that fell from grace

by sungyeowl



Series: lost in today and the past; lost in the future we had [8]
Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, guys we should all love gally and give him cuddles, i don't know what to say, supposed to be read SEPARATELY from the rest of the series, this is the longest prompt i've written so far, thomally are besties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungyeowl/pseuds/sungyeowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>"And how exactly are you gonna do this, Thomas?” Gally doesn’t even lift his head up when Thomas bursts into their room and tells him everything, words shooting out of his mouth so fast that he stutters a few times, and by the time he’s finished he’s out of breath.<br/>Gally doesn’t seem fazed, though.<br/>“I’m gonna be a <i>party animal</i> from now on, that’s how I’m gonna do it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part I

**Author's Note:**

> the loveliest person aka **vennieandroxie on tumblr** drew the most beautiful fanart for this fic [HERE](http://vennieandroxie.tumblr.com/post/113696198442/for-sungyeowl-and-her-adorable-thominho-library-au) and i am sO IN LOVE WITH IT. thank you again, go check it out, guys (AND THE REST OF FANARTS, TOO, GORGEOUS) ♡
> 
> tumblr prompt \- 9. _grinding_ for Thominho~  
>  asked here.  
> : D

It’s when his third year starts that Thomas realizes that up till now, his university life was a disaster. Or non-existent, to be precise.

It hits him straight in the face, slaps him hard, actually, makes him stop in his tracks in the empty hallway, even though he’s already late.

The first year is a blur – Thomas is not sure how he even managed to live through it. The first semester was pretty much him walking around as if he were hypnotized or blindfolded – _sleepwalking_ , really - trying to figure out how university works, trying to find his way in the new city, trying to make new friends. The second year was easier, though not much better – he has made some friends, got to know the city and uni rules, but the load of work and studying he had to do was _unbelievable,_ robbing him off of any social life he could possibly have.

And that was it – pathetic, Thomas thinks with dread, plopping down on the nearest bench. He hasn’t been to any of those infamous parties with pot and barrels of beers, alcohol in red plastic cups, loud music and crowds and crowds of people, he hadn’t had one-night stands, he didn’t kiss with strangers, he didn’t have to run from police. He didn’t live off of caffeine, he didn’t pull all-nighters (those because of not studying at all, not those when he got paranoid he wouldn’t pass even though he had been studying for a month prior), he didn’t go clubbing. He didn’t do anything a typical, cliché uni student was destined to do (except for having a roommate whom he didn’t like, but they sorted it out after the first half of the first semester).  And even if those weren’t exactly ambitious goals, even if Thomas is not a partying or drinking type, he muses he would like to try it. Once, at least, before he gets his Bachelor’s degree.

“I’m boring,” he mutters under his nose with resignation, gathers his things and makes his way back to his dorm, the lecture he was supposed to attend long forgotten.

*

“And how exactly are you gonna do this, Thomas?” Gally doesn’t even lift his head up when Thomas bursts into their room and tells him everything, words shooting out of his mouth so fast that he stutters a few times, and by the time he’s finished he’s out of breath.

Gally doesn’t seem fazed, though.

“I’m gonna be a party animal from now on, that’s how I’m gonna do it,” Thomas replies definitely, mind set.  A checklist has already appeared in his head and he’s going to cross every single thing he wants to try doing out of it before the year ends. There’s no going back – he will live to the fullest and he will do however he pleases. He will _rock_ the whole campus.

“Thomas,” there’s a moment of tense silence before Gally exhales deeply, sets The Most Sublime Hysteric he’s been reading aside and shifts on his bed so he can face Thomas on the other side of the room. “You don’t go to parties. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink much. You _don’t know_ people who would invite you to parties. That won’t be easy, man.”

Thomas would be stupid if he didn’t think about it beforehand. But he’s not and so he did, and the counter-argument is on the tip of his tongue before Gally even finishes speaking.

“But I know you,” he says, pointing a finger threateningly at his friend. “And you attend the same classes Brenda does, that should be enough, no?”

They’re silent for a few minutes, during which Thomas imagines the tribes in Gally’s brain going on overdrive (to the point he’s quite surprised there’s no steam coming out of his roommate’s ears), when the man finally speaks, voice visibly strained.

“Thomas. I’m not going to make Brenda invite you to her parties. You barely know each other. _I_ barely speak to her myself, damn it.”

“Why not?” Thomas throws his hands in the air abruptly. He knew convincing Gally wouldn’t be easy, but it was his best shot. And, Thomas’s well aware of the fact that even Gally – or, _especially_ Gally – can’t resist his bambi eyes if Thomas is persistent enough (that’s how they stopped fighting in the first place after they had been assigned as roommates; Gally was a tough guy who was getting incredibly annoyed with everything Thomas did, until Thomas got fed up with the silent, cold treatment with occasional huge arguments, so he confronted him, saying he wanted to be friends, pulling his best puppy-eyed look at the bigger man – he was so stubborn Gally eventually gave in and soon enough they’ve become best friends. And Thomas hasn’t given up on the efficient technique since.). “Gally. Gallyyyy, come on. We could go together, that wouldn’t look so weird. Please?”

There’s an internal battle going on inside of Gally before he shakes his head, slaps his forehead in resignation, then sighs – twice – and finally replies, “God, Jesus Christ, _fine_. I’ll see what I can do, good that?”

“You’re the best,” Thomas smiles, trying not to look too sly, for his own good. “Thanks, man. ‘S gonna be awesome, I’m telling you.”

“Slim it before I change my mind,” Gally mumbles with no actual menace tinting his tone and picks up the book, ready to go back to his reading, apparently done with Thomas’ bullshit. “But, Thomas?”

“Yeah?” Thomas hums, content, lying down and burying himself under the duvet, weirdly exhausted from all the excessive thinking and planning.

“What about your biochem project? You said it’s due in two weeks, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t go along with wild partying.”

“Oh,” Thomas manages to squeak only, all of his plans crumbling down. Shit. “I’ll wait till I am finished with it, then.”

 

*

Thomas has never considered himself to be a particularly lucky person, nor the other way around; he hadn’t given it much thought, not really - but what happens two weeks later is so weird, bordering on _lucky_ and _unlucky_ , that he starts wondering if he should actually learn some more about fate, or karma, or whatever it’s called.

His plans concerning reviving his social life are postponed until he is finished with his assignment (which Gally graciously doesn’t stop mocking him about) so his routine doesn’t really change – Thomas attends he classes, reads, visits library, studies, and reads even more. But there’s this nudge, this _pull_ at the back of his mind that makes the anticipation coil in the pit of his stomach. Because as soon as Thomas gets a grade – an A, let’s be real, that’s what he’s always aimed for – he’s going to work on himself and nothing is going to stop him. For once, he’s going to do something for himself and push the studying and the need to be good at all of his subjects aside.

And so it pretty much feels like Christmas when Thomas finally gets an A on both his presentation and his essay, and with no future projects in sight he can finally start fulfilling his mental wishlist.

Or so he thinks.

The man bolts out of the classroom, bag clutched to his chest, ecstatic and impatient to drop the books off at the library so he can meet up with Gally and do – _something_. Go clubbing or crash at a random party or do _whatever_ Thomas has always wanted to do. It doesn’t matter, there is nothing to stop him now.

 

“You were supposed to bring those books a week ago,” the librarian says when Thomas enters the library building and  leans restlessly over his desk, eager to get rid of the books.

“Yes, yes, sorry. I had an assignment, I needed them,” a fake smile makes its way on his face as Thomas tries to look apologetic because _of course_ the grumpy librarian would be here when he’s in a rush.

“That’s what phone calls are for,” the man remarks slowly, as if Thomas were a five years old – and stupid at that – child. “You ring and we extend the loan period of the books you borrowed.”

The urge to roll his eyes is so strong that it almost physically pains Thomas not to do so. “Yes sir, I’ll remember that,” he manages to say through gritted teeth. “So do I pay a fee?”

“Two dollars,” the man says with a frown. “And you’re gonna have to put them back on their shelves. There are people waiting for them.”

Thomas doesn’t say a word when he pushes the money towards the librarian and turns on his heel to get rid of the books as soon as possible, but smirks to himself when he hears the man mutter, “And don’t call me sir, bloody hell, we’re probably the same age.”

Thomas has always liked the library – spacious and quiet, with high shelves and green lamps and the overwhelming smell of old paper which he loves. But today it seems too big and too quiet, an obstacle, and he seriously just wants to get out and join Gally and _get wild_.

Which might not be the best idea in the world, Thomas ponders, startled, as soon as he reaches the right row of the shelves only to see a smokin’ hot guy standing there.

Which _is_ a stupid idea, he’s certain, when the guy looks up and says, “Oh, ya’ve got Fundamentals of Forensic DNA Typing. Been waiting for that.”

Thomas can only halt in his way over to the right shelf and stare dumbly as the man approaches him, pushing the glasses higher up on his nose, extending his muscled arms for one of the books Thomas’ holding. His eyebrows are thick and his black hair is perfectly styled; his eyes squint as he smiles when Thomas finally hands him the book.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure. Um. I mean, sorry,” Thomas stutters, feeling sheepish all of the sudden. The Asian guy is still smiling, looking all smart and classy in is button down and thick-rimmed glasses, and he might possibly be the hottest person Thomas has encountered meeting in a looong time.

“So you’re the one keeping the book all to himself, hm?” the guy inquires, his gaze flicking to the damn thing menacingly, though he looks cheery nonetheless, his eyes drilling into Thomas’ right after (making him break into cold sweats in the process, damn him). “The one Newt told me about?”

“Newt?” Thomas sounds so weak he wants to slap himself in the face. As if him standing there, gaping like a lovestruck cow weren’t enough.

The other man doesn’t seem to notice – or care, which is probably the case here – and points with his thumb in the general direction of the reception desk.

“The lil’ grumpy British man over there.”

“Oh. Ugh. Yes, that would be me,” and if that’s not an unhealthy flush gracing his cheeks may Thomas burn in hell, because he has never felt this  - _crestfallen_ , the word invades Thomas’ mind (and doesn’t help at all), thanks to someone’s looks only.

“Well, ya seem like a smart shank to me, so ‘m gonna forgive ya this once, okay?” the guy doesn’t waste his time and _actually fucking winks_ at Thomas, and if Thomas weren’t so shocked that this someone might actually be hitting on him, he would faint dramatically and make an even bigger fool out of himself. “Name’s Minho, by the way.”

The fact that Thomas is able to form a coherent word, even if it’s only his name, is a miracle in itself, so he tries not to worry too much that his mouth stays open after he introduces himself.

 

He’s not sure how it happens, but Minho helps him put all of the books back to their places, all the time chatting happily, not bothered by the fact that Thomas’ only contribution to the conversation are troglodyte noises as his future plans about going crazy and crossing all borders are going down with every sentence the intelligent, impossibly good-looking guy directs at him.

“So I’ll see you on Monday?” Minho says when they’re leaving (Newt The Librarian observing them carefully all the time), as if it’s the most natural and normal thing to say to a stranger one has met at a library. Thomas just wants to scream, though he doesn’t know if out of joy or terror.

“Sure thing,” he replies, eloquent as ever, trying to level is voice so he doesn’t sound too excited or too terrified.

Minho smiles as a means of goodbye and they part ways.

Thomas is so dazed he gets on the wrong bus.


	2. part II (final)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is some ingenious shit,” Thomas manages to mumble only before Minho leans in and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /whistles  
> (the actual _grinding_ part from the prompt happens here. or does it? (IT DOES))

Gally laughs for approximately ten minutes when Thomas stumbles into their dorm an hour later and tells him everything, hugging a pillow to his chest gloomily all the time.

“You’re a loser, Thomas,” he wheezes out eventually, wiping off the tears that have started flowing down his cheeks at some point. “ _Such_ a loser. What will you do now?”

“I was hoping for an advice, okay?” Thomas grumbles, aggravated, then throws the pillow at his friend. Gally ducks quickly – quite a challenge, considering how big the man is – and steals the pillow, pushing it under his head as he leans more comfortably against the wall. His wild brows are raised and there’s a shit-eating grin on his face. Thomas doesn’t like it one bit.

“How could I possibly advise you?” Gally asks, feigning seriousness.

Once Thomas stifles the overpowering need to move over and punch Gally in his stupid, freckled face, he lets out a puff of air and racks is fingers through his hair painfully, tugging at it in desperation.

“Just help me out, man,” Thomas pleads, pulling an I-am-so-miserable-please-love-me face and chancing a look at his roommate, hoping to aim at his empathy. “The guy – _Minho_ , he looked so smart and all, a studying type.”

“What’s the problem? He’s like you then, more or less. And interested, if you didn’t lie to me.”

“No, Gally, you don’t understand,” Thomas whines, though he’s well aware of the fact that Gally most definitely _does_ understand and just wants to wallow in his misery. “How do I turn into a party animal if he’s interested in visiting-the-library-frequently me?”

“You sure you can’t reconcile those two? You could go to the library _and_   you could party,” Gally shrugs, not helpful at all.

“Don’t want to take my chances,” Thomas murmurs, pointing his eyes downwards. “He’s really hot, okay. And intelligent. Jesus.”

There’s an afflicted exhale coming from the other side of the room before Thomas’ bed dips under additional weight.

“Just meet up with him. And be yourself,” Gally remarks calmly, his presence weirdly comforting at Thomas’ side. “You can try partying later, maybe the guy likes it too.”

“You think?” Thomas cannot really not sound hopeful as he turns his head to the side to look at the taller boy.

“I do,” Gally nods with definition, then cringes. “Don’t ever make me say such sappy bullshit again, though, I beg you. Get yourself together.”

“I’ll do that,” Thomas agrees. Not because he’s certain it’ll work, but because Gally’s always right, so that could be a good start. And it’s not that bad of an idea – if the Minho guy turns out to be a douche or not actually interested in Thomas, he can return to his going-crazy plans. Losing an opportunity to get to know a handsome guy _who likes books_ doesn’t seem wise, especially since said guy has had such an impact on Thomas in the first place.

*

The weekend rolls over faster than Thomas expects and soon enough he wakes up to the unforgiving alarm on Monday morning. He doesn’t get up for fifteen minutes, until Gally’s shuffling around the room gets to the point of _purposeful_ and _unbearable_ so muchthat Thomas is almost forced to open up his eyes and sit up.

“Morning,” Gally mumbles around a mouthful of toast as he hastily pushes papers that look suspiciously like the essay he has spent writing all Saturday into his backpack. “Big day today.”

“Don’t remind me, feel like puking,” Thomas mumbles, kicking the duvet off of himself. Tiredness that usually occupies his body in the mornings is slowly being replaced by nervousness, he muses with dread, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He’s not used to going on dates, and the fact that his meet up with the Minho guy is not even technically _a date_ doesn’t make things easier. Thomas tries not to think about the fact that he doesn’t even know at what time he should show up at the library. It’s – _he_ is – going to be a disaster, that’s the only thing he’s confident in.

“I meant my presentation about  _Žižek_ ,” Gally throws him a funny look at that, after he’s finished with his toast and all packed up. Thomas might have felt embarrassed if he didn’t do it before, and if he didn’t know Gally is probably just playing with him. “I couldn’t care less about your stupid library meeting.”

“You’re a filthy liar,” Thomas frowns but smiles nevertheless, his nerves easing the slightest bit.

“Take a shower, man up and act normally. And ya’ll be fine,” Gally says simply, salutes him a goodbye and is out of their room before Thomas can think of a snarky reply.

*

Half of him wants to back out, half of him wonders if Minho will even show up, and if there could be a third half, Thomas’ sure it would be the one to stay cooped in their dorm and not go anywhere.

But there’s only so many conflicted emotions Thomas can contain battling in himself while the only way to get rid of them is to actually get out – and so he does.

*

His lectures are a blur, professors’ words mingling into a shitload of incomprehensible babble; Thomas changes his mind every ten or so minutes – after a generous time of consideration he’s decided to go to the library after classes, like he would usually do, but if he will _indeed_ find courage to meet up with Minho is an entirely different matter. He feels either excited or nervous – there’s no in between and in both cases Thomas is definitely overreacting (and well aware of that).

 But when he accidentally burns a hole through his desk with sulphuric acid during lab, causing his lab partner to shriek in horror and his professor to roll her eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t stay fixed to the back of her skull, Thomas sets his mind and decides to just roll with the flow. He will go, and he will at most mess it up. It wouldn’t be the first time, too.

*

There’s nothing more to be done, though, when Thomas is finally on his way to the library, well past five o’clock, and his resolve weakens considerably. Maybe he was lucky – or unlucky so – with Minho thwarting his plans to change his social life. Maybe Minho would _be_ a change to his social life, the idea popped up in his mind at some point during one of his lectures. And even though Thomas knows he’ll learn only if he goes to the library, he fears.

Which seems really stupid, because if it even were a date, it’s not that serious of a problem. People go on dates all the time. Damn, does he overreact.

*

By the time he enters the building, he’s got to restrain himself from shaking – and _thank god_ that the grumpy Englishman – a friend of Minho, apparently – isn’t there today.

The same goes to Minho, though, Thomas notices as he walks with an edge of carefulness to his step between the shelves. The man isn’t here – not yet or not anymore, and that’s what has got Thomas panicking.

Of course Minho wasn’t serious, why would he be? Would he really want to hook up with a random bookworm who keeps borrowed books for too long? Probably, and, rather obviously - not, the realization almost physically smacks Thomas in the face and he snorts humourlessly out loud.

A hand springs up to his mouth and covers it; Thomas startles, because that’s not his hand.

“Shh, we’re in a library,” Minho – Minho! – says next to him, beaming at Thomas as he lets go of him. And he’s just – standing there, smiling, one hand wrapped around a strap of his bag, slung over his strong shoulder. “Hi, you.”

“Hello,” Thomas says dumbly, confused about the enormous wave of relief that washes over him at the sight of the Asian guy. “I- I wasn’t sure you’d be there.”

“Well,” Minho’s lips purse in mock wonder as he gives Thomas an once-over and knits his thick brows together. “And ‘ere I thought ya were clever. I told ya we’d see each other, yeah?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Then have some fight in me, shuckface. Let’s go,” it’s a miracle _and_ a wonder how Thomas doesn’t lose his consciousness when Minho fucking _winks_ at him, then grabs his wrist gently and pulls him towards the exit.

*

And amid his panicked, racing thoughts and Minho’s merry, constant talking, Thomas finds himself in a pub or something, sitting at a round table with the other boy opposite of him. The place on his hand where Minho held him burns with a weird tingling sensation; and even though Thomas is sure he spoke like two sentences at most, he’s still super aware of every move he does, even if Minho doesn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered by his silence or his awkward tension.

“So, what d’ya want to drink?” Minho asks, leaning a bit over the table. Thomas has a hard time detaching his eyes from the flexed muscles of his forearm on the table, brain swarming with various, not very helpful thoughts.

And when he finally does, Thomas finds himself at a loss for words. Minho is smiling, all the time, his hair as perfect as the first time they met, the glasses propped on his nose only adding to his charm.

“I just,” Thomas speaks after a minute of quick pondering. “I didn’t think we’d leave the library. Like… I’m just so confused,” he finishes with a loud exhale and hides his face in his palms, fearing Minho’s reaction.

“Just chill out,” Minho’s voice is contended but soothing at the same time; there’s a fleeting touch at Thomas’ shoulder, but he doesn’t lift his head up just yet, waiting for the other guy to continue. “Man, I’m making you uncomfortable, ain’t I? I just wanted to hang out, ya seemd cool. And you’re kinda cute, too.”

A groan makes its way up Thomas’ throat because this man is freaking unbelievable, and Thomas doesn’t know how to deal with people like him. The fact that Minho’s cheeky but not rude, and very good-looking, doesn’t help – just  baffles Thomas even more, if anything.

“You just have to be so straight-forward, don’t you,” he mumbles, resigned, and eventually musters courage to give Minho a glare. The man just beams at him, _that_ _smug bastard_.

“Forward – yes, but I’m not so sure about the _straight_ part,” he replies and Thomas just gapes, mouth hanging open in an internal scream of disbelief at how this boy is even real.

“Oh my god.”

“Sorry, the opportunity was just too good,” Mino laughs at that, nodding his head a little. “Just enjoy the date, okay, Tom-boy?”

If Thomas weren’t still so shocked with Minho’s words about being – not so, in that matter – straight, he would probably start wondering about the nickname (and maybe try to remember _when exactly_ he introduced himself; he supposes it had to be at some point when Minho helped him put the books back in their shelves the last time), but Minho is looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for any form of acknowledgement and his mind reels in search for the right reply.

“So it’s a date, then?” he asks instead of saying anything more clever, _dumb shit_.

“If you want it to be, yeah,” Minho offers him yet another smile, but Thomas can say he’s being serious right now. Which is kind of encouraging, he’s not going to lie.

“A date, then,” Thomas agrees, marvelling at how his voice doesn’t break and straightens up his back as he tries to look at Minho fully without faltering in shyness. “And I’ll have a beer, thanks.”

*

They _bond_ over a few too many beers; Minho is talking all the time and Thomas loosens up though he doesn’t speak all that much. He points it out, a slight slur to his words, at some point, and apologizes, but Minho shakes his finger at him with a chuckle and calls it ‘bonding’. They argue over the meaning of the word and its circumstances, and Thomas is tipsy and somehow cosy, and suddenly Minho is paying for their drinks and they’re walking outside.

The fresh air chases the slight intoxication away from his body, but the infatuation with Minho Thomas has admitted to in his head earlier stays, stubborn and firm. Minho’s walking close by, his elbow occasionally bumping into Thomas’, making him flinch every time but not extend the distance between them.

“Where’re we headed?” Thomas asks finally, swallowing nervously, as he looks over at Minho; he doesn’t want them to part ways just yet, but he has no idea how to voice it out without sounding off-putting or clingy. “Can’t really go back to the library, can we.”

Minho barks a short laugh at that and nods, then slings his arm carelessly around Thomas’ shoulders. The brunette stiffens momentarily but doesn’t move away, because it feels fucking nice and because it’s supposed to be a date, and that’s what you let your dates do, for god’s sake.

“True that,” Minho says. “And I don’t think Newt would appreciate us making out in the presence of his sacred books anyways.”

Thomas chokes on air and his saliva at this statement, cheeks and ears flushing red; Minho slaps him on the back a few times but otherwise doesn’t say or do anything else.

“So you and the librarian…?” he wheezes out, trying not to focus on the making out part.

“Friends,” Minho supplies, moving his hand back to embrace Thomas again. “He was complaining about you so much, I just had to pay a visit and see the cute shank that was driving him mad keeping the books.”

“What?” Thomas stammers, staring at the shorter boy. Because that’s – _that’s_ what he did not except. “You mean-? What the fuck.”

Minho looks smug and pleased with himself as he stops and steps over, palms landing on Thomas’ waist as he pulls him closer. Thomas doesn’t have strength (or willingness) to pull away.

“That I wasn’t exactly waiting for Fundamentals of Forensic DNA Typing? That might be the case, yes,” Minho concedes, an audacious smirk now plastered to his face. His hands move slowly, up and down on Thomas’ waist; and it should be unnerving – and it kind of is, but it feels okay, even though Thomas’ surprised out of his mind, eyebrows knitting in a frown and all.

“ _Do_ you even study biochemistry?” Thomas asks accusingly, jabbing one of his fingers painfully into Minho’s firm chest before he inches unconsciously closer, basking in the heat that seems to be radiating off of the guy’s body.

“Environmental engineering,” Minho corrects in what seems like wonder, the grin on his face so wide and bright that Thomas is sure that if Minho weren’t holding him right now, he would give him a cheerful thumbs up.

“This is some ingenious shit,” Thomas manages to mumble only before Minho leans in and kisses him.

(And Thomas kisses back without doubt.)

*

How they manage to keep their distance in the cab Minho calls later is a great mystery, but Thomas is too preoccupied with how Minho’s hand feels in his, warm and kind of clammy; but it fits – sort of perfectly, and that’s what counts.

He’s not sure in what part of the city they are when they stumble out of the car, he doesn’t know what time it is; he doesn’t care that he practically doesn’t know the guy who’s holding him close when they walk, that he could be a freak or an asshole or that that they could simply not click right.

But they do for now, and that’s what really matters, Thomas decides as they enter what appears to be Minho’s apartment building.

 

They stumble up the stairs and Thomas doesn’t know where his sense of balance has disappeared to, but he loses his footing twice before they even make it to the door; and not because of the alcohol, too, but because of the way Minho’s hands feel heavy and somewhat electrifying on his hips when he repeatedly leaves sloppy kisses on the back of Thomas’ neck.

They have to part for Minho to open the door and Thomas whines – actually fucking whines, which would be fucking embarrassing if his mind weren’t so hazed – because it feels agonizing and cold and he _needs_ the contact, badly.

Minho’s hand is back on his hip when they’re finally inside and it only takes Thomas a split second to turn around and smash the shorter man against the door.

Minho is surprised, that much is apparent in the yelp he lets out and in the way his eyes widen, and Thomas hesitates for a moment; but although shorter, Minho is probably stronger than him, so he could push Thomas off easily – but he doesn’t, and that’s why Thomas calms down a bit.

His hands automatically move up Minho’s chest; slowly and deliberately, feeling the firm muscles underneath. It feels good and weirdly intimate, and hotness overwhelms him when Minho exhales deeply, bending his head backwards so it leans against the door.

Thomas’ hands stop and rest around Minho’s neck as he presses himself closer to the heated body under him and there’s only so much he can do to restrain himself; soon enough he hides his face in the crook of Minho’s shoulder, nosing at his skin and allowing himself to drag his lips against it.

“Is it okay?” Thomas asks breathily as he pushes even closer to Minho, drinking in the smell of his soap and cologne; and he’s never done it before, not like that, not with a person he’s met only twice; so he fears.

“I dragged you ‘ere, shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Minho inquiries, voice brilliantly low, hands raking under Thomas’ sweater and resting on his shoulder blades; and it’s probably the most arousing thing Thomas has ever experienced in his life because Minho’s breaths hit his skin and his hands seem gentle and demanding and encouraging and possessive at the same time.

“Is it?” Thomas urges, pushing his boundaries aside a chancing a bite at Minho’s collar bone.

And Minho moans a yes and it sounds so lewd and so beautiful that Thomas doesn’t hesitate and slowly works a knee between Minho’s thighs, to which Minho complies willingly, draping himself around Thomas and letting him hoist him up.

Thomas’ fingers stumble on the buttons of Minho’s shirt as he works them open and Minho in turn tugs at his jumper; soon enough the skin-on-skin contact is too much, too hot, too _good_ , Thomas thinks as he accidentally bites at Minho’s shoulder too harshly; it’s messy and careless, Minho’s languid hands on his shoulders and back and chest, his lips on Minho’s jaw and neck.

The friction is too much; there’s sweat trickling down his temple when Thomas releases a bit of tension as he presses– _rocks_ against Minho, their groins meeting frantically right after.

The rhythm is dazzling and to say Thomas enjoys the way Minho moves against him is an understatement of the year.

“I want you,” he dares to say, right into Minho’s mouth.

The boy pressed against the door shudders underneath Thomas and his breathing hitches, but he doesn’t pull away and doesn’t stop grinding against him as he rasps, “You’ve got me, damn it, you’ve got me.”

Thomas laughs at that and kisses Minho once, twice, quick and chaste and sweet, until Minho’s hands tangle in his hair, pulling and demanding and waiting for bruising attention again.

*

It’s unusual because they don’t fall asleep – it’s weird but feels fucking amazing, in Thomas’ opinion, as he cuddles closer to Minho’s side, hands draped lazily around his toned chest. Minho is talking again – he does that a lot, Thomas muses as he hums occasionally, drawing lazy, invisible patterns on Minho’s skin. He does that a lot but it’s not annoying and Thomas doesn’t know him very much, and he’s never done something like that before. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever speak again, because maybe that’s just how Minho rolls.

He doesn’t know but it’s okay because it feels good, right here and right in this moment; and maybe that’s not what Thomas planned, maybe it’s dangerous and irresponsible, but it somehow fits his earlier scheme of going crazy – and there’s no way in hell Thomas will regret letting it all happen.

*

(They _do_ speak again and Minho makes him pancakes with bananas for breakfast; Thomas is happy and content and hopeful, because Gally looks fucking scandalised when Minho shows up at their dorm in the evening and kisses Thomas silly as a greeting, right before Gally’s eyes.)


End file.
